She tended the herb gardens, braiding, twisting or binding the plants to dry among the rafters. She foraged in the ancient woods, hidden leas, forsaken moors. Dried mushrooms and mosses; scented pine cones.
She saw to the chickens and goats, kept the kitchen garden from becoming the home of thistles and binder-weed.
At night, by the light of tapers and hearth, she mended her smocks and aprons, knit stockings, cut bandages while lilting the ancient songs.
She might easily be thought a young girl, or when guised in leggings and jerkin, hair pulled up into a cap, a boy. Tiny breasts, no waist nor hips to swish and sway, she smiled at the thought of her hawking cures for certain diseases and love potions during the carnavelesque fairs. Basket on hip, calling out to the festive crowd.
No, healers were best small, plain, invisible. Able to slip into fever and plague houses without notice. To minister to the living and the dying. Without fear or disgust. They wore their skirts short, avoiding the blood and pus that might cover the floor. High aprons to absorb what may come their way. Their special potions and adherence to the old ways provided a shield against disease.
Today, brushing a wisp of her raven’s hair out her eyes (“I must have too loosely braided”, she thought), she scrunched her face as she recited the ingredients for soothing salve – putting the right plants on to steep, readying the bee’s wax, and counting out the jars.
Some still made the journey, cross the wind-carved cliff tops, to seek her knowledge. But these were few, now that the town physics mesmerized the people with their vials, and test tubes, blood letting, and books. “Those hrtedyp are fey – ancient crones who crackle your bones and speak to ravens for cures.” The physics were men; they held the healing power now.
She carried on as if she were not the last hrtedyp – the natural born healers who once were highly prized and their wares in high demand at the seasonal Long Fairs. In the time that once would be spent healing, she worked on her herbarium; pressing and drying the plants, then scribing their names and uses. So the knowledge would not be lost. If she allowed herself the thought, she could feel bereft that no-one would know feverfew helped with the sweating fever; a tincture of chamomile eased sore throats and coughs; a twist of dried poppy juice mixed with ale helped numb pain.
It was hardest during the wintering, when the icy fingers of the North knocked on her windows and rattled the lock on her door. She felt the cold loneliness. Even fewer called upon her for comfort, or hope.
She rocked her old chair, creaky with well-worn rockers and arms. Dreamed of the olden times. Times when hrtedyps were a valued and valuable member of the community. Dreamed of her mother, grand-mother, great-grandmother. Letting her stand on a stool and stir the tincture into the bees wax. Singing her songs of the Ancients. Of dark forests and magic.
Then one night, as a blizzard lashed the landscape, came a faint pounding on her door. Wrapping her shawl tighter, she undid the bolt, and a half-frozen man fell into her house. Perhaps there was still need for hrtedyps, and, as she helped him to the hearth, perhaps she might not be the last. Smiling, she sang an encantment to the Ancients, as her foremothers taught.
Written for mlmm’s tale weaver: making sense of non-sense, “the-last-hrtedyp.”
image: young wise“lady”
October 6, 2018 at 6:20 am
These women and men served a great purpose in their day, their knowledge was sound and bourn of true wiseness.
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October 12, 2018 at 6:44 am
Exactly — you put into words succinctly what many cultures have lost!
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October 3, 2018 at 4:37 pm
This was an excellent response Lorraine, one of your best. Your tale reminded me of Geraldine Brooks’ “Years of Wonder” about the plague and the role of the village witch/herbalist. Thanks for sharing your words with the tale weaver.
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October 4, 2018 at 7:38 am
Thank you Michael for another great making sense of non-sense phrase!
I will have to read the book you mention.
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October 3, 2018 at 12:05 pm
wonderful story Lorraine :D
you’ve really pulled out all the stops and the word, it so fits – you’ve taken it and made it your own, and set the mood and scene perfectly … totally awesome this! wow. I really enjoyed this late morning reading ~ a bright spot in my day.
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October 4, 2018 at 7:40 am
Thanks, Pat. Always glad to be of service and bring a bright spot to you day!
I made other attempts, but finally this one wanted to be written. One of my “characters” in my “head stories” is by times a healer.
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October 4, 2018 at 1:22 pm
sometimes time is what is need to let it all steep and come together ;)
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October 12, 2018 at 6:49 am
Yes, a ticking clock stirring the brew . . .
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October 3, 2018 at 5:34 am
Beautiful, sad and powerful. Wow 👍👍
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October 3, 2018 at 5:54 am
Thank you Stephanie. How are you doing? It’s been a while! Everything going okay?
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October 3, 2018 at 7:13 am
Everything’s peachy 😁😁 thanks. What about you?
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October 3, 2018 at 8:25 am
Hanging in there!
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October 3, 2018 at 9:02 am
Don’t let go 😉
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October 4, 2018 at 7:40 am
I will try not to, lol.
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